


let's start something we can't finish

by wakeupyoursaints (untiltheliebecomesyourlife)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untiltheliebecomesyourlife/pseuds/wakeupyoursaints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In movies, people you meet randomly at bus stops in the rain usually turn out to be your soulmate or some bullshit like that. As far as he knew, Michael Jones wasn't the subject of some ridiculous romcom, but he'd been wrong before. </p><p>(This was supposed to be part 1 of a 30-day prompt challenge but I'm just writing them as I go and using the prompts for each chapter. Rating is subject to change.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's start something we can't finish

**Author's Note:**

> this was literally inspired by the song Waiting for the Bus in the Rain by Satellite High (which if you don't know is from Welcome to Night Vale) so I'm not sure I can call myself a serious writer at this point

At first glance, it would cross absolutely no one’s mind to call Michael Jones a boy scout (spend five minutes in a room with him and an Xbox and you’d get a veritable fireworks show of “colorful” vocabulary; drink with him and you’d be on the floor giggling before he even started to show signs of unsteadiness). However, those who took the time to look past what he was immediately willing to share knew something else pretty crucial about him - namely, that he was always prepared. 

Maybe it was that he was a true blue Jersey native, and living in the state had made him weary of anything and everything. Maybe it was a massive, lifelong overreaction to the time he forgot to pack his lunch one day in second grade and the kid who’d been bullying him all year laughed and made him eat dirt from under the swingset. Whatever it was, he never forgot his lunch (or anything, really) anymore.  _Those vest-wearing pricks got something right, at least._

So today when he looked out the window before leaving for work and noted the color of the sky (a sort of light grayish that reminded him of a weak latte), he slung the red umbrella hanging on the coat hook around his wrist without a second thought, because no way in hell was he getting wet on the mile-and-a-half walk to the bus stop (or the five to fifteen minutes he’d spend standing there waiting for the goddamned bus even though it was supposed to arrive at 8:35 and he always got there exactly at 8:30 like a fucking asshole).

As if on cue, the downpour started the moment he closed his front door behind him, and he undid the strap on his umbrella with a click of the tongue and a roll of the eyes.  _Fucking knew it._

His walk to the bus stop, as usual, wasn’t exactly something to write home about, so he was maybe even more amused and surprised than he should have been when he saw the stranger sitting on the bench looking like a drowned rat. Amused because, well, who wouldn’t be, and surprised because he knew all the regulars at this stop, and they never bothered to sit down. Most people didn’t around here. He figured they were either in too big of a hurry or they liked complaining too much (both seemed likely given the fact that this  _was_  New Jersey). 

Upon closer inspection, he noted that the soaked man was tall and almost too skinny, with long sandy blond hair (the tips of which hung dripping in his eyes) and a quite attractive face despite the large nose and the very pronounced pout (presumably at his current lot). Michael stood back for a while before he realized he was staring, and shook himself before walking the rest of the way.  _Don’t stare, he’s probably an idiot. Can’t even remember a fucking umbrella and it’s rainy season._

Michael didn’t really feel like making small talk with the seven or so people milling about on the sidewalk, but sitting on the bench probably meant striking up a conversation with the waterlogged moron. Still, he didn’t get much sleep last night for some reason, and his back protested loudly at him for even leaving the bed, so with a resigned sigh (and a small nervous twinge in his chest that he fought hard to ignore) he plopped down on the bench beside the man. He wasn’t close enough to him that his umbrella saved the stranger from the rain, of course, which showed no signs of letting up. 

Said stranger turned his head to look at Michael (who was watching him out of the corner of his eye but refused valiantly to stare any more), and as he did so the pout lifted and slowly twisted into something like a crooked smirk. It was kind of a good look for him, if you ignored the rivulets of water streaming down his face and his ridiculously drenched clothes. And  _wait… he’s smirking at_ me _, why is he smirking at me, that gorgeous asshole. What the fuck is he looking at?_

"What the fuck are you looking at?" He’d finally found his voice, and a scowl to match. The stranger took a while to reply, his expression lazily thoughtful, like he was actually considering his response to a perfectly straightforward question. When he did, Michael knew he was fucked - the man was  _British_ , too, for Christ’s sake. 

"Sorry, didn’t mean to stare, it’s just… you’ve got an umbrella." The man was smiling more than smirking now, like he’d purposely left something out and was terribly amused by the notion. Michael squinted at the man, arching one brow; apparently, not only was he British and forgetful, he also liked to point out the fucking obvious.

"And you don’t. What are you trying to say?" Michael shot back, knowing he was being unfriendly and managing not to give a fuck. He had a feeling it was connected to some warped middle-school-like "if I’m nice to him he’ll think I like him" mentality, but he didn’t dwell too long on that. It was early, it was raining, the bus still wasn’t here, and if he had to dissect his feelings about some random attractive foreigner he’d met not minutes ago, his brain might just say "fuck it" and stop working entirely.

The laugh that came bubbling up from the man’s throat was subdued and infused with that accent and he wanted to hear more but oh yeah, he was supposed to be annoyed with him, right. He tuned in just in time to hear the actual answer to the question, which was a dreadfully charming, “I was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind budging over a bit and sharing, love.”

Michael did his best to ignore the funny little twinge he’d earlier associated with nerves but that flared up again at the word  _love_ , and said, less harshly than he intended, “What’s the point? You’re wet already. And besides, I don’t even know your name. Why would you ask a complete stranger to share an umbrella?”  _Maybe it was some weird British thing. They were all super polite over there, right?_

"Well, I can remedy that right now. I’m Gavin, what’s your name?" the Brit said, extending a hand, the same lopsided smile painted on his face. He was persistent, Michael had to give him that. With a sigh that blew his still-dry curls off his forehead (he really needed a haircut), the ginger turned away slightly and replied flatly, "I’m Michael." He shook Gavin’s hand, although it wasn’t his custom. A Jersey hello was a grunt and a nod, if that. 

Although Gavin let go of his hand, he didn’t take his annoyingly large green eyes off of Michael. They were curious, pleading, and somehow smugly victorious all at once - he hadn’t won whatever he was trying to win yet, but he knew he would. Michael knew he would too.  _Goddamned motherfucking accent and eyes and hair and laugh and—_

He sighed loudly, hoping none of his internal monologue had written itself on his face, and edged closer to Gavin so that the umbrella shielded them both from the rain. The response he got almost made everything worth it; the man’s face lit up so completely, so warmly, that Michael couldn’t help but be drawn into his smile and returned it with a small one of his own.

"Thank you, Michael."

"You’re welcome, Gavin."


End file.
